


Three Themes

by the_thinktank



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexuality, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-02
Updated: 2012-01-02
Packaged: 2017-10-28 17:49:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/310515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_thinktank/pseuds/the_thinktank
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three things Sherlock notes that John does in abundance – eating, sleeping and whatever passes for fun that day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Themes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [igrockspock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/igrockspock/gifts).



> A fic for the December 2011 Holmestice and a gift to igrockspock. Happy New Year to everyone, enjoy!

Three things Sherlock notes that John does in abundance – eating, sleeping and whatever passes for fun that day. It has been six months since this relationship moved beyond the realm of simply flatmates into something deeper and he has learnt more from John than anyone else.

## Eat

## 

 

Sherlock has never seen why food is elevated to such a high level of importance. Apart from the necessity of sustaining or prolonging life, he has never viewed it as a pleasurable or exciting experience. He can withhold it if necessary and eat only when it becomes critical - unlike certain members of the family.

 

Mycroft is always happy to lavish himself on fine dining establishments courtesy of a larger than average salary and permanent membership of an exclusive club. Sherlock doesn’t particularly care about fine dining – or any dining – or his weight. Food just holds no interest for him. He scoffs at people watching their TVs with a whole variety of cookery shows, each chef as indistinguishable as the dishes they claim as their own. Every mindless TV programme has a cookery aspect. As for buying the ingredients, the labyrinthine task to find the correct items would also waste valuable time never mind cooking them.

 

No, he does need to clog his brain with useless information about how cardamom pods can infuse flavour into rice or what is the optimum way to make mashed potatoes so they are lovely and fluffy. Although, certainly, elements of cookery held chemical interest and once or twice he has dipped into John’s Heston Blumenthal book when John was absent in the pursuit of scientific knowledge.

 

And so his attitude towards food has remained until John arrived. The man insists on eating all the time and without food he becomes irritable, tiring and unable to keep up with the simplest of explanations. His body is a slave to glucose. Certainly, John is not concerned with purely fine dining like Mycroft – whilst out on cases John is perfectly content with dragging Sherlock into even the greasiest of greasy spoons. On average, Sherlock estimates that the time he now wastes in eating establishments has risen by 110%.

 

Of course, a prerogative of being in a relationship means John starts to share more. They often sit in restaurants – John happily scoffing and Sherlock happily watching/thinking/ drumming his fingers impatiently – and the plate of food will eventually migrate to his side of the table.

 

“Here, eat _something_ ,” John insists, pushing forward his plate. “You must be starving!” And to appease him Sherlock will pick at the rashers of bacon or overly salted chips. A sign on the wall advertises the tastiest pies in London.

 

“Food should not be a purely indulgent experience,” Sherlock comments. It is simply the finest example of transport.

 

Of course, John cooks as well when he feels like it or when the pennies are too low to continually order take out or eat out. Occasionally a risotto appears along with the occasional casserole and Sherlock is surprised by John’s talent. Items start to appear in the kitchen too – pots, pans, a garlic crusher, a potato peeler, a lemon squeezer….

 

“What’s this?” Sherlock asks once, absently picking up the one of the tiny army of jars now dotting the kitchen table.

 

John busies himself with chopping onions and ginger. “A spice rack. Or rather spice…collection as there’s no space in this kitchen for an actual rack.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because I’m going to make something for tea. Something you will actually eat.”

 

Right, so John had been paid. And he went shopping. With indifference, Sherlock tosses the jar back onto the table and collapses on the sofa with an exaggerated sigh. He is phenomenally bored - no cases for over a week and he has exhausted all the deductive capabilities possible from crap telly. He spends half an hour flicking through a book on poisonous amphibians before a smell wafting from the kitchen grabs his attention. And it is intriguing. A pungent and exotic smell that fills the whole flat with warmth.

 

It draws him back into the kitchen where he stands ominously behind John, peering at the brown/orangey liquid bubbling in the pot that John continually stirs. “What is it?” he asks, unable to keep the interest out of his voice. He expected John to create something mundane – maybe toad in the hole or chicken casserole.

 

“Afghani Quroma,” John replies instead.  “Once a month, some of the women from the villages came into the compound. They used to bring home made craft items that we could buy to send back home; they used to entertain us with dancing and singing. But the food was the best part. So many curries and breads and vegetable dishes. I asked a woman once for a recipe of my favourite.”

 

Sherlock leans down, smelling the rich aroma. He wonders if this is what John smells every time he closes his eyes. It is an assault on the senses but a pleasant one – one which conjures up images of far away lands. “You’re confident in your cooking abilities. You’ve _enjoy_ cooking.”

 

“I used to do a lot of cooking I’ll have you know. Afghanistan was a great place to experiment. I like my food…hot.” John pre-empts the question he knows the man wants to ask. “Close your eyes,” he instructs gently and Sherlock smiles at him knowingly, trustingly, before obliging.

 

The wooden spoon is pressed against his lips and he opens his mouth, allowing the watery liquid to glide over his taste buds, heating them pleasantly. The essence is unexpected, just like John himself.

 

“Mint,” he says after a few moments of deliberation. “Coriander. Apricots. Cardamom. And a touch of yoghurt.” He flicks out his tongue, catching the remains of the sauce on his lips and it tastes divine.

 

Sherlock pulls the spoon out of John’s hand and sweeps down to kiss him. It is chaste and sweet and just like John’s dish, the perfect combination of flavour and exoticism.  “Do you seduce all your paramours with your culinary expertise, Doctor Watson,” Sherlock murmurs heatedly against his lips.

 

John swallows. When Sherlock speaks and looks like he does now it takes all his willpower not to shove the detective against the kitchen table and ravish him with his lips and fingers. Self-control is one thing he has mastered since living with Sherlock; he knows the detective would not appreciate such advances. But he has seen Sherlock’s eyes light up with delight and excitement at the unexpected food he created for him and this is something he will never tire of repeating. It is enough to see Sherlock happy.

 

“Only those with taste,” John replies, settling for the kiss to represent his feelings too. Reluctantly, he pulls away and prepares the table for the meal as Sherlock watches intently.

 

Food, Sherlock used to think, would always taste the same because it is always the same ingredients that went into the dish itself. What he learnt is that the person cooking the dish makes it taste that much better.

 

 

 

## Sleep

## 

 

John can sleep for hours, Sherlock thinks to himself as he watches the doctor sprawled out across the sofa like a discarded ragdoll. Not just for hours, but in any place and at any time. On the sofa, in taxis, at work, after dinner…Sherlock had wondered whether John suffers from some form of narcolepsy – maybe sleep is his response to boredom as shooting a wall is to Sherlock - but then realised there is a strong correlation between their strange hours of work and John’s strange sleeping patterns. Predictably, at some point during the day, John’s head would bob a few times before succumbing to exhaustion.

 

John gives a small snuffle as he shifts for the first time in an hour and Sherlock glances over, his pipette hovering perilously over the slide he has prepared. So focused on his dying experiment for the last two hours, he’d forgotten John was there, falling asleep after reading a book. The man has now situation himself further into the sofa, one leg hanging off the end and his head now fixed at an odd angle as it slips off the arm.

 

It seems unnatural, Sherlock muses, to be so unguarded – to allow your mind to be completely taken over by your body’s chemicals, vulnerable to any predatory advance. And really, why waste time sleeping when far greater matters require attention. There aren’t enough hours in the day to complete his usual work, let alone sleep away the rest.

 

John only wakes when Sherlock knocks over one of the plastic beakers filled with water and it hits the floor, rattling as it bounces along the tiles. The intrusive clatter in the deathly silence makes even Sherlock wince.

 

As predicted, John sits up abruptly, wide eyed and alert, nearly falling off the sofa now - years of living a military lifestyle having made him attuned to the slightest hint of noise and now the slightest hint of Sherlock. As soon as he realises the danger is not life threatening, his shoulders slump and he rubs a hand across his face, the scratching of skin against his stubble sounding like sandpaper. Suddenly he realises that it’s still dark outside and the only light in the flat comes from the overhead lamp in the kitchen pointed at the microscope.

 

Glancing at his watch, he groans. “What are you doing still awake? It’s 3.15 in the morning.”

 

“Working,” Sherlock replies dismissively, as if the point is obvious.

 

“This is an ungodly hour. You need to sleep,” John says, rubbing the heel of his hand in his eye as most of his sentence is lost in an overpoweringly large yawn.

 

“No, you need to sleep, I need to think. Time is completely irrelevant.”

 

John clambers up, padding into the kitchen to put on the kettle and make himself some warm squash. “Sleep deprivation is torture, you know.”

 

“I am not doing myself any harm. It’s only been three days and my cognitive functions and mental capacity have not been affected yet.”

 

“I’m not talking about you,” John grumbles good naturedly. Then he frowns. “Three days?”

 

Sherlock releases the droplet and it splashes successfully on the colour pigment. He jumps in delight as it disperses correctly. “Don’t be so melodramatic.”

 

As John passes by him to open the cupboard, Sherlock can feel that fuzzy warmth emanating from him. He can’t deny that John looked incredibly comfortable on the sofa, his heavy woollen jumper almost inviting Sherlock to burrow next to him even though he didn’t feel tired. John has a pull, a magnetism that he can’t quite place his finger on. It makes him want to participate in actions that he had never desired so strongly before. The pleasure he derives from John’s platonic touch is a testament to just how deep his feelings for the man lie.

 

It takes a few days but eventually, those tell-tale signs begin to creep in. Sherlock’s eyes become rimmed with red and dark smudges materialise underneath. His normally pale and smooth complexion turns even paler and now unhealthily pasty. John – because he observes too – notices as Sherlock’s fingers holding the delicate pipette tremble slightly and he loses the accuracy required for the task he has been obsessing over for nearly a week.

 

Perhaps it’s the caring nature of his profession but John knows he definitely loves the man too much to watch him put his body through such unnecessary hardship simply because his brain refuses or – more likely – he doesn’t allow his brain the chance to be momentarily weak. This is his job.

 

“Come on,” he whispers, taking Sherlock by the hand. “Fresh eyes on it tomorrow.” It’s telling the way Sherlock doesn’t even protest as John leads the way up to his sparse and sanitary room.

 

Sometimes John puts Sherlock back into his own bed, ridding the covers of debris and forcing the man in between the covers. They don’t live their lives in each other’s pockets and for them both, adequate space is necessary.

 

Tonight, though, they will spend together because they feel it is right. Fingers on his skin – in any other circumstance they would feel uninvitingly intimate – but with John the intimacy comes from the methodical manner with which he undoes the buttons of Sherlock’s shirt and then works on his belt and trousers, ridding him of the clothes he has spent the better part of six days wearing. Sherlock’s instinct would normally be to shy away from the gentle brushes that John graces upon his skin as the clothes are removed. But he knows they are butterfly touches, harmless - with no hidden meaning or implied intent. John has a task – a mission he wants to complete.

 

So instead, he allows John to pull his gangly but malleable arms and legs into oversized pyjamas and direct him to the bed. Sherlock lies there, with his heavy head resting on John’s chest, feeling the rhythmic drumming of John’s heartbeat and steady practised hands gently carding through his hair rhythmically. He focuses on those sensations, falling into the weightless peace that only John can create. The obsession fades into darkness. Into dreamless sleep.

 

 

 

## Play

## 

 

 “So you’re together,” Donovan says, coming up to lean against the car next to John, who is yawning. They both look out at Sherlock, floating above a dead body like he is performing a ritual. Lestrade stands further to the side of the body, trying to pull off exasperation but unable to hide those hints of admiration, even after all these years. “But I’m guessing you don’t sleep with him.”

 

John raises an eyebrow at the sergeant who looks both uncomfortable at the conversation she’s raised and indignant at John’s inquisitive eye. It wouldn’t surprise him if Lestrade has had this same conversation with Sherlock.

 

“I’m observant as well, you know,” Sally continues defensively. “Plus I’ve watched him. Never seen him show interest in anyone. Once, we were investigating the murder of this heiress’ brother in Mayfair. Tall, blond, stunning….” Donovan seems to blow a wistful puff of air. “Not a single spark of interest from him. Course, it probably didn’t help that she wasn’t the murderer.”

 

John folds his arms. “Okay, fine, you’re right. No, we don’t sleep together.”

 

In reality, this had bothered John less and less as time went on. He’d been half way around the world and experienced the meaning of exoticism. He’d lived in a warzone – watched and felt people die beneath his hands and almost died himself. He’d lived in a beautiful country that was caving in on itself. Despite all this, he’d made it back home and returned to emptiness – a void of pure purposelessness – until he met Sherlock. To be connected to the world again through him was more than enough.

 

“Sherlock I understand. But surely you like sex.”

 

Of course, John thinks to himself. Once sex was a favourite pastime. Even Sherlock had recognised that after the debacle with Sarah. And this issue of sex had been hovering in the background ever since this relationship began with Sherlock certain that John’s eventual desire for sexual release would spell their end.

 

Over time John realises, to his slowly diminishing surprise, that there are far more important things to cherish and be grateful for than gratifying sex – important things he had never before taken the time to consider before – the beauty, the momentary and fragility of moments in life that are all too often taken for granted. Some might accuse him of being hopelessly romantic of painfully clichéd (name Sherlock); but he wonders if Sherlock truly knows the impact he’s had on him.

 

“That doesn’t mean he doesn’t…or that we both don’t feel…” John pauses in frustration. He has never asked Sherlock, never pressured him to admit anything. They fell into this deepened emotional relationship so easily that John was uncertain where that crossing line between then and now lay.

 

 _Trust me, Sherlock, I will never be bored of you_ , he has repeated many a time.

 

“Well, that says it all,” Sally remarks with a knowing and kinder grin. “I don’t know if you’re lucky or unlucky,” She turns to him with a more serious expression. “I hope it’s lucky, though.”

 

John is surprisingly grateful for her support. “No one for you, then?”

 

“Not yet.” Sally releases and big sigh, a telling sound made by someone who brushes off the current state of their situation with casual confidence and hides the longing. “I think I need to stay away from the people with crumbling marriages or the serial adulterers. Find someone with a bit more stability in their life.”

 

“Sergeant Donovan,” John cries with feigned incredulity, “don’t tell me you like the ‘bad guys.’”

 

Sally looks at him sardonically. “Well, the only people who can manage living with police officers are other police officers. And they have difficulty balancing their work and their relationships.” She smiles sadly. “It’s a vicious cycle.”

 

“You’ll find someone,” John says with confidence.

 

“Well if Sherlock can find someone as understanding as you, then there’s hope for us all.”

 

That momentary openness in Sally suddenly dissipates and her expression hardens into that cool veneer of contempt. Sherlock has finished with the body and is bounding over to them with that familiar glint in his eyes. They are full of excitement - undisguised glee mixed with childlike exuberance and impatience. “John, Mr Allam was killed in exactly the same way as the other two bodies found last night. There must be a connection. Quick, we must go to Soho.”

 

“Soho? Wh…?” It is a feeble protest because really, he doesn’t not want to go.

 

“Come on. Now is precisely the time we should be going to Soho. Come on!”

 

Sherlock knows there are a thousand other thing John could be doing right now which would constitute playtime activities: having a good Sunday lunch in a local pub; having a nap to recover after Sherlock’s chase yesterday; going to the cinema to see a movie; going to the park. Maybe even sex.

 

A thousand other regular things. And as they sit on the floor after a brawl in a bar, John admits he will always prefer it when Sherlock takes his hand tightly in his grasp and they run into a dark and adventurous area of London together. It’s better than anything else they could do together.

 

 

END


End file.
